Benjamin Posted October 13, 2011 Share Posted October 13, 2011 Oh what a birthday! To muse like a child in the empty park, back and forth upon a swing. To suck bulls-eyes again and sense wood fires and peat in the changing haze. Wince: at autumnal flurried thoughts, that scatter off with birds, as a gate squeals on dry hinges and clangs; but my pendulum continues its troll between heaven and earth. Hear the Polish girls trill, "Carra vash sir?" Touting their smiles on a supermarket car park, leathers and cloths a-swirl round bin carts. Bubbling, wet and so far from home; they seek a warmth and kindness from cold passers-by, whose hostile looks cannot deny a sharp disdain. "Bloody foreigners! Go back home!" They'd love to shout, but daren't call out. And as they sink into their ordered lives a dank smell of rotting leaves on the forest floor, morphs from yellow, brown and gold; squirrels quick and grey forage through the day while twittering migrants gather in half-bare trees. And we could fly to where our minds so freely soar, a whisper away from the sun; if only we had their wings and strength. But leaves stretch like an ill-fitting toupee on the draughty common's moribund brow; where dogs and children once romped in summer's throng. Drank sunlit joy in endless days till some dark prelate loosed a cabal in their place (or so it seems). And nothing now will be the same, for the clocks all go back today, and shorter days bring sombre thoughts. The yellow lights offset impending gloom in houses, with curtains agape,where children play warm games. And flickering coloured screens, describe well how the times have changed. Gas-light to hi-tec in the space of a lifetime. But swings and roundabouts remain the same as the birthdays come and go; and bulls-eyes never seem to lose their appeal. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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